The Wrinkled Coconuts

I had my new passport processed one afternoon recently. Later on that
day at home, I laid two of my old passports and the new one side by side
on my bed, all open to the first page where all the important information
and photos are shown. I looked at the oldest photo that was taken about
14 years ago. What an antique, I thought. I was looking at the photo of
an innocent girl, with no fancy earrings, untouched by sophisticated moisture
booster 'anti-gravity cream' (why bother as my skin at that time was smoother
than a baby's bum anyway). The word 'bule' meant nothing to me but a lack
of pigmentation. Racism, sexism and knowledge of the White-Headhunter Society
whose female members are mushrooming in the city's bars now, just didn't
exist in my mind.

Then I looked at my second photo, that was taken when Soeharto and
his family seemed to have more power than God. My best years, I thought.
The girl in the photo appeared to have no worries; she was a fearless,
confident person who had no idea yet how to change a soiled diaper. A
girl in her prime - eager to unfold any of life's dangerous mysteries:
wisdom, stupidity, love and the wonders of mini pills.

Then I stared at my third photo that had been taken that morning.
No, I don't want to talk about the way I looked. It almost made me sob
uncontrollably. The bloody cream obviously didn't work. Who would be stupid
enough to buy a facial cream called 'Anti Gravity' anyway? An idiot who's
in denial that she's over thirty maybe - just like me. I think walking
upside down could be a more tangible anti-gravity effort. That would've
worked better, why didn't I think about that before I bought the cream?

While one line below the eyes is probably the end of the world for
some women, a million lines in a deeply wrinkled face just adds character
for guys. To overcome their fear of aging men can say whatever they want,
things like 'one more wrinkle is just another inch of added vitality'.
There is actually one local saying: 'Makin tua kelapanya, makin kental
santannya'. The translation is pretty disgusting: 'The older the coconut,
the thicker and nicer the coconut milk it produces.' Get it? Thicker milk?
And why is there no local saying that is as reassuring as that for women?
Something like, hmm. Prozac? Sorry, I couldn't come up with anything.

Talking about aging processes, queuing to get your fingerprints taken
at Jakarta's immigration office definitely qualifies as a long and torturous
aging process. Well, the morning I went I was lucky enough to be standing
in a queue. To avoid boredom, I pretended to be interested in the fingerprinting
that was happening in front of me. On top of a long wooden table in the
corner of the room laid a stack of papers which people should roll their
black smudged fingers onto. Beside the papers was a big pad fully submerged
with blackish thick tar-like goo, and at the end of the table was a piece
of grayish rag that smelled like kerosene and gasoline, used to wipe the
ink from your fingers.

The officer behind a computer called the name of the lady queuing
before me. The middle-aged lady was accompanied by two of her assistants.
One looked like a black-belt karate-expert bodyguard, and the other assistant
was a lady whose sole job was to carry a box of wet tissue, to wipe the
black smudge off the obviously rich lady's fingers.

"Goodness, I can't believe it!" whispered the immigration officer
who was sitting beside me. His eyes focused on some numbers on the computer
screen.

"Do you know that the lady in front of you is already 63 years old?
She doesn't look it, don't you agree? She looks more like a 40-year-old
Pamela Anderson look alike," the officer mumbled to me.

My eyes darted to the screen in front of him. I read: Mrs. X, born
1939. And Mister nosy officer was right - the lady looked way younger
than 63., She could have been my twin sister.

When my fingerprinting torture was over I, a common peasant, was ushered
to the next room to have my photo taken. The camera that the immigration
officers used was directly connected to the computer beside it, so they
could instantly edit and print the photos to be used on the passport.

"Ooh, look at my face on the computer screen! That is so dreadful.
I want you to take my photo again. Wait a minute," screamed the 63-year-old
lady. She looked so stressed watching her face on the computer screen.
She quickly took a compact of magic powder from her bag, dabbed her face
with it, and sprayed her powdered face with some 'youthful fountain in
a bottle'. Then she toppled a young girl, who was already sitting on the
photo chair ready to have her photo taken. The rude lady occupied the
then empty chair, smiled as careful as possible so not to have any cracks
appear on her face and screamed: 'Aaah, that's better!' after she saw
the results on the screen. I was so furious watching her typical selfish
attitude that I was close to ripping off her black-bluish wig, which was
carefully placed to cover her hairline. Get it? Hairline and face-tightening
surgical scar?

What is it with women and the need to look young?

I remember running into Shirley, an Indonesian girl from my hometown,
a few months ago. She was married to a Caucasian guy 15 years her senior
because she thought he had the biggest you-know-what she'd ever seen.
But especially because he was much older than her, that gave her an ego
boost.

I said to her one evening," Remember Shirley, in the past when we
were probably still attending Junior High School ."

I couldn't finish my sentence because Shirley quickly cut in: "O,
but darling, I'm 3 years younger than you, remember? I wouldn't have a
clue about the old days that you want to talk about ."

Does being younger make some women feel superior?

I looked again at the passport photo of a 32-year-old girl who stared
back at me. I said to myself, "Believe me girl, when I'm 63, I want to
look like I'm 63."